


Full Moon

by Evillen



Category: Blitz (2011), Thorne
Genre: Crossover, Fantasy, M/M, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evillen/pseuds/Evillen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil didn't believe in parallel universes... But what if one day they cross?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Susan and QDS for their help with reading over and for their patience with my mistakes:)

Phil was a pragmatist. He didn't believe in the supernatural, and was ready to mock anyone who said otherwise. His work as a pathologist didn’t quite favour the belief in miracles. Every day he saw all kinds of death, over and over again, and he used to think of the body on his table as just a shell and not a human being. Though he liked to explore the body, to solve the cause of death, it was the sense of satisfaction and peace it brought him. But, in fact, he didn't see much sense in it - unless it was a cause of death that could help police find the killer. Whatever the cause of death was, the man would still be dead and wouldn't know if Phil found it out or not.

 And Phil absolutely did not believe in parallel universes. Oh no, he loved science fiction, but only within the framework of what was happening on-screen.

 So when he opened his eyes and saw a completely unfamiliar ceiling above his head - his first thought was: " _How much did we drink last night_?!”

 He tried to recall the events of the previous evening. Oddly, his head was clear and the world wasn't spinning around, so Phil distinctly remembered that he went into a bar with Tom, to celebrate another solved case. Then they ... hell, what happened then? He felt like there was a big black hole in his memory that had been swallowed up the end of the night.

Phil sat on the bed and looked around.

 The room was more like a dump. Dirty tattered wallpaper, some garbage scattered on the soiled carpet, that had a vile, putrid smell. The interior also wasn’t very luxurious - a bed, a ramshackle chair, some abstract painting on the wall, a murky mirror...

“Fuck,” Phil muttered, blinking a few times. The sheets on the bed were definitely not fresh and Phil had a disturbing thought that there may be bedbugs in the mattress. He stood up hurriedly, and then swore again when he stepped barefoot on something slimy which, on closer inspection, turned out to be a piece of rotten fish. Phil found his shoes next to the bed, and he quickly put them on.

 Hendricks looked around the room again. There was nothing even vaguely familiar. No association with yesterday evening. No idea how he ended up here. He patted his pockets in search of his mobile – they were empty.

 “Great…” - He drawled. – “Just wonderful”.

 He noticed a phone at the bedside table and felt a glimmer of relief.

“Well, that’s something”.

 He went to the phone, watching his steps and trying not to slip on anything, picked up the phone and dialed Thorne. Fortunately, he had a good memory for numbers.

“The number you dialed does not exist,” said a  mechanical voice.

 Phil raised an eyebrow.

 “What the ...?”

 He dialed it again. Same result. Phil  threw down the receiver with  irritation, then went to the window and looked out. Outside there were garbage cans and a trash heap similar to the one on the inside. The apartment apparently was in the basement, so it was not surprising that the windows looked out directly at the rubbish cans.

 “I hope I’m at least in London,” he muttered and tousled his hair.

 Phil went to the toilet, overcoming his aversion to the smell that prevailed there, and quickly washed his face with icy water. There was a yellowish towel hanging from a hook, and Phil decided he'd rather be wet than wipe himself with that piece of trash.

He looked around the apartment again, hoping to find anything that would remind him of how he got there. For the most part, there was only waste strewn about, but, after looking in the pockets of his jacket hanging on the back of the chair, he found a business card of some magic saloon. He looked at it in astonishment.

“Magic saloon? Seriously? How much did we drink last night?”

 Without thinking, Phil dialed this dubious institution with the screaming name - Full Moon.

 “Full Moon Saloon, may I help you?" said a soft voice at the other end of the line.

 “I very much hope so,” said Phil.

The girl at the other end laughed melodiously.

 “Hope is a stupid feeling, Mr. Hendricks. You said so yourself.”

 “You know me?”  Phil was delighted. “Tell me, I was there yesterday with a friend, yeah? We were really drunk? I woke up in this rubbish hole...”

“We had to dispel your doubts, Mr. Hendricks,” interrupted the girl.

 Phil didn't understand what she meant.

 “What? Miss, look, I just need to know what was I doing yesterday at your saloon? I'm not one of those people ...”

 “That's why you are where you are now,” was the response. “We gave you a chance, Mr. Hendricks. Don't think that this is a common thing for us”.

 “What does that mean?” Phil wanted to throw the phone at the wall and he had to close his eyes and take a few breaths to calm down. The melodious voice of the girl and her vague responses evoked uncontrollable irritation. He breathed deeply, but it only became worse because of the smell in the apartment. Even in the morgue he could breathe and the smell didn’t bother him, but here it was so disgusting he could hardly stand it.

 “You have until the next full moon, Mr. Hendricks. If you last that long, you get a reward. If not - well, it was your choice. I sincerely wish you good luck, we will watch how things are going with you.”

 He heard short beeps on the other end of the line.

 “What the hell was that?” Phil stared at the phone for a few seconds, trying to understand anything of what she had said, but he couldn't. It just didn’t make any sense. He rubbed his face and slapped his cheeks several times.

 “Okay, time to get out of here. I hope Thorne at least has his sanity today,” muttered Phil as he walked to the door of the apartment.

 As soon as he reached the front door, there was a loud knock on it. Phil jumped and looked warily at the door. He had no idea of who the hell owned the apartment, and had no idea of who could drop in. He froze and listened for a few moments, wondering what to say to these unexpected visitors if they asked what the hell he was doing there. He heard some muffled words behind the door, but only caught “sick bastard.”  And then somebody's low voice said:

 “Police, open up!”

 Phil stared at the door and bit his lip.

 “What the hell?” He whispered again. And then turned the lock and pulled the door, trying to look confident.

 After all, he had a long, close relationship with the police, and he knew what to expect from them. And he could always refer to Thorne. It couldn't be too bad, right?


	2. Reality

No, it definitely was not bad… it was way worse than that, Phil realized a  few minutes later. 

  
“Barry Weiss?” asked officer showing him ID. "Porter Nash" - read Phil, looking him over from head to toe.  _I wonder where they find such handsome cops_? thought Phil. The second was less handsome, and had an angry air about him. He pushed his colleague out of his way and said, rather than asked:   
“We can come in, can’t we, Barry.”

  
Phil was silent, trying to figure out why they called him that name. He decided it must have been the name of the guy who owned this dump. He thought hard about whether or not to pretend to be Barry Weiss. If he did he wouldn’t have to answer to the questions about who he really was and how he got in there. He didn’t know the answers anyway. 

  
" _I won’t say anything yet. I can always ask them to call Thorne. May be they even know him_ ". 

  
Both cops were looking around his apartment.  _Ugh, not his_ , Phil silently cursed. He didn’t want to think of this place as "his apartment." No, he loved his cozy apartment in a black, and white, and red colors.  _I wonder how soon can I get back there?_

  
Phil decided that as soon as the police left, he would go home. He remembered that the ID Porter Nash showed him looked like ID’s the cops in South-East used, which gave him the confidence that he was still in London. Perhaps even near his own home. 

  
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Weiss?” asked Nash, coming up to him and looking into his eyes. Phil blinked, not looking away. Nash sounded polite, but Phil could see the barely concealed contempt on his face.  Phil mentally cursed Weiss. Now this nice police officer would think Phil was some miserable asshole. The other policeman came closer and also gave Phil  an unfriendly look. 

  
Phil sighed. He was torn between telling the truth about who he was flat and ask the cops to give him a ride home to confirm his identity or have them continue to believe he was the jerk who owned this place.  _Who knew what this Weiss had done,_ he thought.  In the end, Phil decided to tell the truth. 

  
“I’m not Barry Weiss,” he said. Nash raised his eyebrows. The other cop snorted, tapped his finger to his temple, and leaned towards Phil. 

  
“Pretending you have amnesia now, Barry? It won’t help.” He looked very threatening, but Phil had seen enough bad cops, so he wasn’t really impressed by this show. Nash pulled the companion's sleeve. 

  
“Stop it, Brant. Maybe he really has an amnesia”. 

  
Brant turned and barked. 

  
“Are you nuts? Amnesia? Him?” 

  
“Listen,” Phil interfered. “I do not have amnesia, or rather I do a bit, but ... hell, I’m just not Weiss!” 

  
They looked at him: Nash with sympathy and suspicion, and Brant with barely controlled anger. 

  
“My name is Phil Hendricks,” continued Phil, trying to speak calmly, " _And I really had too much to drink last night. I’ll kill Thorne!_ " he thought. – “I'm a pathologist, in collaboration with New Scotland Yard.  You can call there and ask for Detective Tom Thorne. He’ll confirm that I’m telling the truth.” 

  
“Why the hell should we call anywhere you say?” Brant said ominously, leaning towards him. Phil didn’t move. “Stop playing mental.” 

  
“How else would you know whether I'm lying or telling the truth?” Phil shrugged his shoulders. “Just call them.” He added, “Please”. 

  
Nash nodded thoughtfully. 

  
“Ok. We’ll call New Scotland Yard. Do you have a phone in your… apartment?” 

  
“It's not my apartment,” said Phil, “but there’s a phone on the nightstand.”

  
“If you’re not Weiss, and this isn’t your apartment,” said Brant, as Nash made the call, “what the hell are you doing here?”

 

His voice was full of disbelief, as if he didn’t even consider the possibility that Phil was telling the truth. 

  
“Detective Thorne and I had too much to drink yesterday.” Phil stepped away from Brant. He didn’t like it when people invaded his personal space, especially such negative minded people.  “We were celebrating a case we just solved.” Brant followed him and Phil folded his arms across his chest. “And then I woke up here not remembering anything about last night. Like I said, too much alcohol.” 

  
“Brant,” said Nash quietly. On his face was a sullen expression. Brant went over to his companion, and they talked about something in low voices. Phil watched them intently, wondering what the cops from New Scotland Yard had told Nash. Was Thorne there or didn’t he make it to work either? Damn. 

  
Finally, Nash approached him. 

  
“Our colleagues from Scotland Yard said that they have never heard of a detective named Tom Thorne, Barry, so I'm inclined to think that you're lying.” 

  
Phil looked at him for a few seconds, and then gave a nervous laugh. 

  
“What a joke! And I even believed you for a second!”

  
“He isn’t joking,” barked Brant. “So enough of this game, Barry. We know all about you.” 

  
“Hush.” Nash leaned forward. “Your methods are too brutal, Brant.” He turned to Phil, who was totally confused, trying to gather the information in one piece. “Look, we just need to clarify a few things ...”

  
What was happening was too strange to be real, and he pinched himself. Yeah, as if he could’ve had such a stupid dream. He remembered the words of the girl from the saloon: " _That's why you are where you are now_." His eyes grew wide and he walked to the phone, calling the number he still had in his mind. Both policemen went silent and stared at him. 

  
“Who do you think you’re calling…”  began Brant, but Phil shrugged, and noticed that Nash looked at him with interest. Nash said something to Brant softly, and he calmed down a bit. The air between them was just boiling from  sexual tension – something that would’ve made Phil laugh at in any other situation. He immediately realized that Nash was gay. It was so apparent in each movement, in appraising glance. In the way he touched his companion, who strained every time those slender fingers touched him. Phil would laugh at how obvious it was that Brant really did want his beautiful colleague, but seemed to hide it carefully; even from himself. 

  
Phil listened to the long beeps down the line, thinking that if they’d met in less strange circumstances, he would definitely have flirted with Nash, who was so... elegant. Almost aristocratic. Damn. Phil bit his lip. " _What the hell am I thinking about? I must really be nuts_ ". Finally there was a click and the voice replied. 

  
“Mr. Hendricks, your calls here are complete waste of time.”

  
“Listen,” Phil tried to keep himself calm and not raise the tone, turning away from the watchful gaze of police officers. “Explain to me what the hell is going on and  I’ll stop calling! Where am I, damn it, and what do you have to do with it?” 

  
“In London.” She said as if the answer was obvious. “You ask the wrong questions, Mr. Hendricks.”

  
“You can confirm that it is my name, right? Listen, you won’t explain, so at least ...” 

  
“Sorry, your time is up. We will definitely see you at the next full moon, Mr. Hendricks. In the meantime - enjoy your new life.” 

  
The short unpleasant beeps hit his ear, and Phil hang up. Every swear word he ever knew was boiling in his mind. He looked at Nash. 

  
“If it is a joke, it isn’t funny,” he said quietly. 

  
“I agree, Barry.” Nash said. Brant was silent, biting his lower lip. 

  
“I am not Barry,” Phil replied very clearly and slowly, rubbing his face in his hands. “God. How many times do I have to repeat it? I don’t  know who Barry is or even what he looks like.” 

  
“Look in the mirror. You’ll know,” Brent muttered. This caught Phil off guard. 

  
“What?” he asked. 

  
Nash went to him, pulling from his pocket a sheet of paper with records and a picture. Phil saw his own face, a little younger, without gray hair, and with sort of a manic expression in his eyes, but ... 

  
“God.”  That was all he could say, looking at the picture with astonishment. 

  
“Stop pretending!” Brant was again in an aggressive mood. Phil sighed. He didn’t want to believe in the reality of the situation. He really didn’t. However, it seemed like he’d have to consider the fact that it wasn’t a dream and it also wasn’t the reality he knew. Or may be he was just hallucinating. He sighed again, looked at the photo of Weiss, at the cops, and then around the apartment. He cursed mentally, out loud he said: 

  
“Can we get out of this stinking hole? I would really like to check whether my apartment exist in this London or not.” 

  
Brant was going to say something, but Nash hurriedly interrupted him. 

  
“Yes, of course. What did you say your name is? Phil?” 

  
Hendricks nodded. It all seemed to him like a game "good cop / bad cop", but still, he liked Nash. At least he could try to explain something to him. Later. But first he had to convince himself that this wasn’t nonsense. And he knew that wouldn’t be easy.

 


End file.
